


this fool doesn't mind

by hotmesslewis



Category: Historical RPF, Lewis and Clark
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Canoe Sex, M/M, YEAH IT'S THE SEX NUMBER
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 21:59:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13690668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotmesslewis/pseuds/hotmesslewis
Summary: His governing passions.





	this fool doesn't mind

This waiting was intolerable.

Meriwether Lewis understood, of course.  As captain of the Corps of Discovery, it was his role to understand the delays, to expect them, to encourage patience among his men.  Hell, most of the time it should have been his role to request or demand the delays.

But the further he traveled up the Missouri River, the more he lost himself to the wilderness, and the worse the waiting seemed.  Though he logically understood the need for the delays, he swore to himself that he couldn’t take them, and he felt his blood rising against the very idea of it— _waiting_ , what a hideous word—his blood singing and pulling against the flow of the river that was determined to take him back to St. Louis, to Washington, to civilization, like a salmon fighting the stream.

Still he waited with fidgeting eyes, with restless arms, with itching feet, resenting the word, and every letter of it— _wait_ ; of all of the words with four letters he could think of, it had to be the foulest, damn it all—resenting the duty he had to do so.

As time passed, it occurred to Lewis that he could no longer recall what he and his men were waiting for, precisely.  It wasn’t the God damned rains for once; the day was cloud-spattered but clear and surprisingly mild, and as Lewis considered the conditions he had religiously recorded in his weather log that morning, he realized that if he tried hard enough he could taste the coming autumn.  Nor was the waiting a result a tribe of natives they were engaging in diplomatic relations; that, at the very least, would have given Lewis something to _do_.  The Corps was in Shoshone country now, but still had seen neither hide nor hair of the people of the land, nor any other tribe, and Lewis was quickly growing impatient with this other waiting he was forced to endure.

Two kinds of waiting.  Insufferable.

What was it, then, that delayed the Corps at this godforsaken camp along the edge of the godforsaken Missouri in the shadow of the godforsaken Rocky Mountains?  A hunting party or repairs to the boats, likely.  The former seemed more probable, but Lewis genuinely did not know.

The captain of such an esteemed expedition should know.

The captain of such an esteemed expedition did not give a damn, quite frankly.

Hours passed slowly, in which Lewis sat on his pallet of buffalo skins in the dim light of the captains’ tent, contemplated his plant samples and his scientific journals, and accomplished nothing.  He couldn’t be sure of the exact time in the confines of his tent, nor did he want to know how much time he was waiting ( _wasting_ , whispered some dark voice deep within him).

A rustle at the tent flap.  _Billy Clark_ , Lewis thought hopefully, a little irrationally, as though the redheaded co-captain ( _lover_ , the dark voice whispered mockingly, like one of the President’s fine wines laced with sin) could sense his unhappiness and would come to him.  _Not so, we regret to inform you, Captain Lewis,_ the wind informed him teasingly, ruffling his hair, _but we have brought to you a message from him._   Clark’s sun-warmed, rowdy laughter rolled on the breeze into the dark tent and the brooding man, and Lewis gave in to the impulse he had been denying all day, tossing aside the work he was studiously avoiding and stepping into the sun.

It hit him like a stampeding buffalo, like a charging grizzly— _no, not half so broad, so imprecise; narrower, more focused, Meriwether_ —like an Indian brave’s sure arrow: lust.  Not, surprisingly, for his tall, handsome co-commander chatting amiably with Sergeant Ordway, but for the river that practically laid itself at his feet as though for his taking.  Oh, how Lewis longed to be on it, in it, his body hungry for movement, his eyes impossibly starved for the new sights, things that no white man had yet laid eyes, the power of this knowledge, of seeing something _new_.  Lust in its purest, truest form, lust for discovery, a feeling impossible to describe even as you experienced it.

_Give into your baser impulses, Meriwether._

How little encouragement he needed.

_This land, this river is yours for the taking._

Impossible to own. 

But wasn’t there some inherent ownership in discovery?  Or in lust, at the very least?  The idea of possession, perhaps, an illusion that was worth the cost.

“Yes, thank you, I think I shall.”  Words spoken to himself; were any of the men around, that would have likely thought him mad, but reflecting on the notion, Lewis wasn’t sure if he would mind that so much.  Wasn’t he mad, after all?  The wind, the land spoke to him, and he spoke back; he felt a strange kinship to an injured bear that took twenty minutes to die, _being so hard to die_ , he had written it, not fully understanding why he chose those words, but believing them regardless.  The waiting drove him mad, quite simply—the only cure was to give into the madness, to embrace it, to laugh and join the river.

He approached Clark and Ordway, giddy as a child, reckless, even.

With odd enthusiasm: “Good day, gentlemen!”  _Childish, Meriwether._   He hardly cared.

Clark grinned at him, and it hit Lewis: lust, the other kind.  The warmth of desire spreading up his chest and neck.  Smile at him, and he knows what it means without a word or even a glance full of meaning being offered.

Two kinds of waiting; two kinds of lust.  Lewis briefly toyed with the idea in his mind, to see if there was some connection, before concluding that there wasn’t and discarding the thought.  His blue eye lit on the blue river again.  Strange, or was it so strange, that the water seemed so much clearer the further away from settled land the Corps traveled.  Sometimes it seemed hard to believe it was the same muddy, murky Missouri they fought with so much resentment in the early days of their journey.

“I …” Lewis spoke distractedly.  “There was a tributary a little ways back up the river, just a few miles, I had a desire” ( _quite a significant word, Meriwether_ ) “to explore when we passed it.  I think, as there is not much else to do at present until,” he risked it, and was pleased to see that his instinct (or was it logic?  He could hardly tell the difference anymore) proved correct, “the hunting party returns, that I shall travel back upstream and explore this little river.”  Hardly a river.  A stream at best; more of a creek, really.

“I should like to go with you, if you would not object, Captain Lewis.”  Hesitant hazel eyes.  Lewis knew what Clark must have in mind, was flattered that Clark was asking his permission.  “I have read some of your journal entries, and I should like to see the world as you do.  Provided I am not needed here at the camp?”

_I should like to see the world as you do._   There was something oddly intimate about that phrasing to Lewis, who tried to fight the deepening blush in the presence of Sergeant Ordway.  How could that man not sense the nearness, the warmth of the two captains?  Did they really mask the tenderness of a glance so well as that? 

( _What tenderness?_ taunted the dark speaker within his mind.  _Imagined tenderness, perhaps?  One-sided tenderness?_   But, really, that was taking it too far; if there was one constant in the world, it was William Clark.  Lewis resolved to smother the shadowy voice—for the day, at least—covering it in animal skins and holding them down, pressing them into the earth until he felt the struggling stop within himself.)

Sergeant Ordway’s face remained largely impassive, however, save for a glance quick as a bird between the two men.  Clark’s almost bashful request and demeanor charmed Lewis.  “Object?  What complaint could I possibly make of your company?  I should be delighted if you would join me, Captain Clark.  Sergeant Ordway, I’m assuming you can handle the command until we have returned?  We shall undoubtedly be back by nightfall.”

Three faces of perfect eagerness—Lewis, his eyes still wandering the lines of the river with impatience; Clark, wetting his lips and hungrily casting a sidelong glance at the narrow form of his young lover; Ordway, saluting with pride and half-hoping a problem would arise that would call for him to use his temporary command.  All settled, then—Lewis and Clark practically ran to the boats, dragging a dugout canoe into the water, scrambling for a couple of oars, easing themselves into the boat.

As soon as they were downstream and out of sight of the camp, Clark leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the back shoulder of Lewis’s buckskin coat.  Lewis turned his eyes down to the water but smiled up to the sun.  “Will you be mine today, Meriwether?”

Why did he ever bother to ask?  “Of course, Billy.  Why else do you think that I let you come along?  But,” he continued, feeling the motion behind him, “it likely would be better to wait until we branch off of the Missouri herself.  Otherwise, who knows where we might end up?”

Acknowledgement and impatience.  Apparently Lewis was not the only one tired of waiting.  “Ah, yes.  You’re right, of course.”

“Maybe a mile more, I promise.”

It was less than a mile.  For some reason, when the Corps passed this stream initially it stood out in Lewis’s mind, as though he knew it had, it would have, some significance, though he failed to understand why or how.  It lit up like summer fireflies at dusk in his mind, and he made the mental note to come back to it someday, to explore it and discover its sights, without questioning his drive to do so.  It was an impulse he was quickly learning to trust, this strange intuition of his.  Abandon logic, trust instinct—was this the rule of the wilderness?  Or just more of his insanity?

_Did it matter, really?_   No, not particularly, he supposed, because the day was without fault; the pull of the gentle stream as they turned into it was slight against the boat, as if it wished for them to stay in its cool waters instead of rejoining the agitated, roaring Missouri; and Clark was turning him around, nearly tipping over the boat, and pushing him into the bow in an endlessly deep kiss until Lewis’s tongue was on Clark’s slightly parted lips, and Clark took the tongue into his mouth.  Their clothes came off, tossed aside, bunched into messy piles at the other end of the boat, sleeves and legs of pants hanging off the edge of the canoe and becoming thoroughly soaked by the waters.  Lewis couldn’t recall, as he held and rubbed his burning body against Clark’s in time with water plashing against the side of the canoe, if he had taken off his own clothes or if he’d let Clark do it for him, but it seemed suddenly, strangely important as Clark gently bit into the tender skin of his neck.

Clark was holding Lewis’s hips down, then, his red head at Lewis’s cock, but he didn’t yet take it into his mouth, and Lewis needed to speak before he did.  Clark was rubbing his face against Lewis’s hardness, forehead, eyelids and lashes, nose nuzzling, lips pulling apart slightly as he dragged his face, his chin up, but Lewis needed to speak, damn it, or he would give in, another opportunity lost.

“I want to,” Lewis gasped out.  _I want to fuck you_ , he thought madly, insanely, but even after all this time, even after Clark saying it, even after using the vulgarity himself when inebriated with alcohol and passion, he couldn’t say it, not now, not here, not today.

Clark tried to quiet him, but he spoke on anyway, and the words surprised him.  “I want to make you happy, Billy.”

_Shocking idea!  Novel thought!_   The desire to make one’s partner ( _lover_ —sneering, damn it, Lewis could have sworn that the voice had been strangled) happy.  It was honestly not an idea that had occurred to Meriwether Lewis before.  Yes, it was something he tried to do, something implicit in the idea of loving, but it meant more, somehow, oh, so much more when there were words for it.

“Of course you do,” Clark replied, the heat of his breath on Lewis’s cock nearly convincing Lewis to just let Clark take him as he would.  _Of course._   Of course Clark had taken this idea, so new and unexpected to Lewis, as the principle their entire relationship was founded on—the desire to make _each other_ happy.  _Meriwether Lewis, you selfish, heartless bastard_ , but Clark would not have stood for such self-abuse.  “This will make me happy, Meri.”

Clark’s mouth open, his lips nearly around Lewis’s cock, and Lewis pulled his fingers through Clark’s thick, soft red hair, his hand on Clark’s head to do what?  To ( _selfishly_ ) pull Clark into him, or to hold Clark off?  For a moment he honestly didn’t know which he would do, but he held himself and held Clark off.  “No,” he said softly, as his body screamed _yes_.

Doubt in those hazel eyes, and suddenly Clark looked almost like a child.

( _Can’t you do anything right, Meriwether?_   How in holy hell could he shut this unendurable voice, this demon up?)

Correcting himself, then, an amendment to his _no_.  “Why can’t we …” How could you phrase a request such as this?  He looked at the tan, taut body of the man who so clearly wanted to lean into him, who he held off so ( _coldly?  Is that the word, Meriwether Lewis?_ ) his body.  One of Clark’s hands clutched the side of the boat, the other lightly holding his cock, thumb massaging his swollen head, and Lewis wanted to taste him again, so much.  “Why can’t we both …” Impossible to phrase; far easier to show.  Lewis sat up straighter, moving his hands to Clark’s chest.  Indulgently he ran them over Clark’s firm abs before putting them to Clark’s shoulders and pushing him onto his back in the boat—“Lie back, Billy”—so trusting, Clark did as he was asked.

Heads in opposite directions; yes this could— Lewis laid down on his side and slid down by Clark, the canoe was so narrow, but surely neither of them truly minded the tightness, as Lewis’s legs and hips rubbed against Clark’s legs, hips, chest as he slipped past him until his head was level with Clark’s cock.  He was curled awkwardly with his back curved against the side of the boat, his chest heaving against Clark’s side as he took Clark’s hips and turned him slightly.  He laid his head on Clark’s thigh, and, yes, this would work well.  “Like this,” he murmured, running his hand along the underside of Clark’s cock and pressing his own to Clark’s lips, and Clark understood, pushing his hips towards Lewis as he took Lewis’s length into himself.

The essence of Clark, spices and paper, and Lewis took Clark’s cock into his mouth gratefully.

Such movement, undoubtedly the canoe, so sure in the roughest of rapids, undoubtedly it would overturn and sink and wouldn’t they drown then?  But, sweet God in heaven, what a way to die.  Or maybe it just felt like there was more movement than there actually was as he moved along Clark’s length and Clark was also twisting on him, Lord, the boat couldn’t possibly take much more, or was it Lewis himself that couldn’t take much more?  His hands mirrored Clark’s (or did Clark’s mirror his?) fingers tracing up the backs of legs, the flats of palms on thighs, hands pulling, grabbing at Clark’s hips, Lewis’s ass in the attempt to get closer to each other, until ( _the cruelty!_ ) Clark pulled suddenly away from Lewis’s cock with a gasp.  _How could he_ but Lewis just moved on him harder, unable to see what Clark was doing though he heard the panting and gentle moans, feel the movement by his hips and Clark still held Lewis’s heavy shaft in one hand.  But then he was in the warmth and wetness of Clark’s mouth again and Clark was ( _how could he_ ) opening him, and two of Clark’s fingers were moving inside of him and he really could not—

_He would not—_

_He would make Billy—_

It wasn’t even necessary to finish thoughts at this point, to even begin them, really.  Shadowed half-ideas danced across his mind—pleasure.  Not his own; not merely his own; _how could he_?

With a turn and his tongue, and his mouth was off Clark’s cock, and his lips were on Clark’s hips, then, holding the shaft out of the way, it pressing against the side of his neck ( _surely Billy could feel him breathing, no, panting, and how must that feel?_ ), and his lips were on Clark’s balls, taking them into his mouth for a moment, until he could feel Clark was ready for him.  He whispered Clark’s name into the dark red hair surrounding the base of Clark’s cock before taking the man back into his mouth, more length than before, more than he might have thought possible, going deeper as Clark came for him.

Clark moaned around him, unbelievably, and he might have tried to say the name were he not so full of the man, and his hands were out of Lewis because they were on Lewis’s narrow hips, the small of Lewis’s back, forcefully pulling Lewis deeper into him as Lewis himself came, nearly forgetting to swallow in his release.

They finished, they pulled apart, they wiped their mouths and filled their lungs with air.  Lewis, having given himself over to sensation for a few moments, let himself think again.

Why did it always feel like salvation?  _Because it was; for a moment, from himself_. 

Why did he always feel that he should be so immensely grateful?  _Because he should be; by no means did he deserve this man, this love._

Another insane thought; that was all left for him these days, he suspected, insanity and, oddly, happiness.  His head still lay on Clark’s thigh and the sun warmed his body as he stretched an arm out above him, rubbed a hand on Clark’s calf.  Clark wrapped his arm under Lewis’s body, held his back, said his name.  Lewis had forgotten there were clouds in the sky today, but he stared up at them as Clark dozed and he thought his thought, again and again.

_I’ve never felt closer to you._

An asinine statement.  They were practically on top of each other in a God damned canoe—of course they had never been closer.  But that was not nearly what Lewis meant, and he knew Clark would understand him, but still he couldn’t say it.

_I love you_.

He considered using that instead, but surely Clark knew?  Did it bear repeating?  ( _Yes, it did._   Clark said those words to him all the time, and they were so small, couldn’t he at least— _Meriwether Lewis, you selfish, heartless bastard._ ) 

But they didn’t mean quite the same thing, did they? 

No better words for it but “I’ve never felt closer to you.”

Still, he couldn’t make himself say it, and they lay there, on the river, in blissful silence.


End file.
